


if you wanna get it done you gotta do it yourself

by jugheadjones



Series: fp or mary comes out on top [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Dating Disasters, FP/Mary friendship, Love Triangles, Multi, parentdale, teenage mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 01:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14438166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: “In three-point-five seconds from now,” FP pronounces, “Hermione’s going to walk in the door and Fred’s going to melt like butter in the hot sun.”Mary shakes her head. “You protest too much, FP.”“Do I? Freddie and I were supposed to go fishing yesterday. Hermione showed up needing an escort to some swanky country club thing and he forgot all about it. Face it.” FP takes a long drink from his soda. “This is a game we’re always going to lose.”





	if you wanna get it done you gotta do it yourself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bewareoftrips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewareoftrips/gifts).



> I figured Kim needed something nice after all the buffoonery she’s being put through. I haven’t watched the latest episode yet or even heard anything about it but I know it’s buffoonery. 
> 
> title from _everything louder than everything else_ by meat loaf

FP’s killing time in a booth at Pop’s when Mary shows up, twitching a straw in between his fingers in the absence of a cigarette. Mary plunks an order of onion rings down on the table and slides into the seat opposite him. She glances quickly over her shoulder before leaning in.

“Are you here with Fred?”

“Don’t think so, why?” grouches FP, pointedly ignoring where his best friend is seated at his usual stool by the counter, chatting aimlessly with Pop Tate over a chocolate malted and a burger. He fiddles with the straw a little more fiercely before abandoning it and turning back to his meal.

Mary grins and tucks a stray lock of red hair behind her ear. FP doesn’t miss the glow that overtakes her face. “You can’t tell Fred, but I’m hoping he’ll ask me to the dance on Friday.”

FP just snorts, prodding with a fry at the last smear of ketchup on his almost-clean plate. “So am I, Red, but we both know how that’s going to end.”

Mary is unfazed, nibbling on one of the rings. Pop’s has the best in town: honey-gold and crispy. “Hoping he’ll take me, or hoping he’ll take you?” she jokes, nudging FP with her foot under the table.

“Take you,” mumbles FP, eyes downcast. He pops the fry in his mouth and chews slowly. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

Mary’s hopeful expression is replaced by one of unimpressed suspicion. “What does that mean?”

FP sighs. “I mean in three-point-five seconds from now, Hermione’s going to walk in the door and Fred’s going to melt like butter in the hot sun.”

Mary shakes her head. “You protest too much, FP.”

“Do I? Freddie and I were supposed to go fishing yesterday. Hermione showed up needing an escort to some swanky country club thing and he forgot all about it. Face it. We’re horribly outmatched.” FP reaches hesitantly for her basket of rings and snags one when she nods permission. “This is a game we’re always going to lose.”

Mary snorts. “Well, what do I do?”

“Do what I do,” suggests FP half-heartedly, his eyes on the window that opens to the parking lot. “Pray.”

As if on cue, the bell above the door jangles. Hermione waltzes into the soda shop in an electric blue tube top and black denim shorts, her feet strapped into a complex-looking pair of rhinestone-bedazzled sandales.

“Three..” FP deadpans for Mary’s benefit as she approaches, keeping an eye on Fred, seated at the counter. “Two...”

No sooner has he pronounced the _one_ than Fred turns around to see who had come through the door and immediately spills his malted on himself. Hermione lifts her nose slightly at the mess and heads to the front of the shop to order. Mary slips out of FP’s booth with a smirk.

“Sorry, F. Mary Moore isn’t a sit-around-and-pray kind of gal.”

FP watches Mary approach the counter. She plants herself firmly in front of Fred, who’s occupied with mopping at his lap with napkins, waiting patiently until he looks up.

“Hey, Fred,” she says loudly, her voice firm and confident enough to draw the curious eyes of every patron in the room. “Do you want to go to the dance with me on Friday?”

Fred looks up at her with a chocolate-soaked napkin wadded in his hand and a smile, oblivious to the stares. Hermione, at the cash, has spun around completely, mouth agape at Mary’s daring. “Sure, Mary.”

“What!?” Hermione strides over, eyes flashing, heels snapping on the lineoleum like gunshots. FP resists the urge to hide his eyes. “You’re taking her to the dance?”

She points hard at Mary, eyes blazing at her. “You hussy! You knew I wanted him!”

Mary just smiles, making brief eye contact with FP over Hermione’s shoulder before turning back to her friend. “Sorry, Hermione. I guess you should have asked earlier. Early bird gets the worm and all that.”

Hermione turns on Fred, eyes smoking. “This is ridiculous. Tell her you’re taking me.”

Mary stands firm, arms folded against her sensible T-shirt. “Do that and we’re through, Fred.”

Fred looks from one to the other. When it’s clear no one’s backing down, he turns nervously to Hermione, swallowing hard. “Hermione, I’m really sorry- I did say yes to Mary, and she asked first-“

“Oh, I’m sure she did!” Hermione’s heels click on the floor as she storms into Mary’s personal space, lip curled in wrath. “Your days are numbered, Carrot Top-“

“Ladies, come on-“ Fred protests, leaping gallantly off his stool and trying to gently separate them. “There’s more than enough of me to-“

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence. Hermione grabs the chocolate malted he’d upset earlier and sprays the rest of it on the front of his shirt with one quick flick of her wrist. The cold on his neck is enough to shock Fred into silence. His mouth drops open in surprise, and FP has to stuff another onion ring in his mouth to muffle the laugh that had almost slipped out. Fred has chocolate dripping off the bottom of his chin. The white front of his baseball tee is soaked through.

“Heel,” Hermione proclaims coldly, turning around and storming away. The bell jingles again when she walks out. Mary cocks a ginger eyebrow.

“I sure hope the end of that sentence wasn’t what it sounded like, Fred.”

Fred’s entire face and neck turns pink, his sensitive ears flaming a strawberry red. Mary pulls a stack of napkins out of the dispenser and hands it to him.

“Pick me up at seven. And don’t try anything funny.”

She slips back into FP’s booth as Pop is handing Fred a mop to clean up the rest of his drink from the floor.

“See? It’s not so hard after all. Now your turn.”

FP tears his eyes away from Fred. “My turn?”

“Go over there and say: ‘Freddie, after you take Mary to the dance on Friday you can pick me up at seven to go fishing the next day.’ Or whatever ungodly hour you two get up.”

FP sets his fork slowly down. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“He’s probably busy or something.”

“That’s why you don’t ask, you tell him. The way Hermione does.” Mary nudges him. “Go. Try it.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Go say: ‘Fred, you’re taking me fishing on Saturday.’ And don’t take no for an answer. If he pushes, push back.”

“Sure, Mary.” FP fights an urge to roll his eyes at her eagerness. “Look, you can get away with this stuff. I don’t know if you’ve noticed. But it’s not like that with the two of us.”

“Exactly. You let him walk all over you.”

“Fred doesn’t-“

“FP, you could have done it by now.” Mary drags her onion rings away. “I’m not sharing anymore until you go tell him.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Moore.”

“Just do it.”

“Pass.”

“FP, come on. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Do it. Or it’ll never happen for you.”

Reluctantly, FP stands up from his seat. He approaches his friend slowly, waiting until he looks up from his mopping to close the distance between them.

“Did you see this happen?” Fred asks incredulously at FP’s arrival, plucking at the damp front of his shirt. “She knows this is my new shirt.”

FP cracks a smile. “I’m sure it’ll be okay. Mama Andrews is a whiz with the washing machine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” mumbles Fred, slapping the mop at the floor.

“Well, guess what,” says FP, with false bravado, trying to smooth over the silence. “You and I are going fishing together on Saturday morning.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You cancelled on me yesterday,” argues FP waveringly, with more confidence than he feels. “So it’s only right you make it up to me.”

“Come on, F-“ Fred protests, dropping his eyes back to the floor he’s mopping. “I’m booked solid. Plus, I’ve gotta figure out a way to make this up to Hermione somehow.”

FP swallows, remembers Mary’s words, and stands his ground. “Then you can contemplate it by the lake because we’re going fishing.”

“I promised I’d take you, and i'm gonna stick to it, I swear,” insists Fred, his imploring puppy eyes as big as saucers as he looks back up at his friend. “I really, really promise. But it’s just gotta be next week sometime.” He grins, the goofy disarming one that always makes FP’s knees turn to mush. “I’ll pack you a huge picnic lunch to make up for it. I’ll tell my mom to make apple pie.”

“Okay,” murmurs FP, defeated, and turns around to walk back. Then he pauses. Turns around again. Fred’s still watching him, a slight frown creasing his forehead.

“No, Fred,” FP admits, his voice slightly less firm than Mary’s had been. “It’s not okay. I’m tired of you giving me the runaround. We’ve been planning this for months and it might not seem like a big deal to you but it means a lot to me. And every time you reschedule when something better comes up. Well, I want you to stick to your word this time. I’ll be ready at seven and I hope you’ll come with me because these excuses aren’t good enough anymore.”

He sucks in a deep breath when he’s done talking. The miserable look on Fred’s face is the one of someone who’s just been told his dog died. FP’s about to blurt out an abrupt apology for being too harsh when Fred speaks up, cutting him off.

“FP, I’m so sorry. I treat you like dirt, don’t I?”

“No,” backtracks FP quickly, hating the crestfallen look on Fred’s face. “No, you’re fine-“

“Stop.” Fred touches his arm with the hand that’s free of chocolate. “You’re right.” His eyes twinkle with a laugh, almost drowned in the hesitance and unhappiness that had risen in them. “Mama Andrews raised me better than this.”

FP realizes his mouth is hanging open and quickly shuts it. Fred keeps speaking, oblivious to his friend’s astonishment. “When did you say? Eight? I’ll get the car from my dad and pick you up.”

“Seven-“ corrects FP shyly, and Fred nods, his full attention fixed on FP for the first time.

“Seven.” He smiles, equally shy, equally hopeful. “Perfect. We can do seven if you want to do seven. Not too early, not too late, right?”

“Right.”

“On Saturday.” Fred nods to himself. His hand squeezes FP’s arm once and releases it. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there. You can use my new rod if you want.”

FP looks around him. The other patrons have finally grown disinterested with the smeary mess of chocolate Fred’s standing in and are no longer paying them close attention. Only Mary is watching the two of them, though he expects Pop, hovering by the ice cream machine, to be listening. “And the new reel you got for your birthday?”

“Yeah!” Fred enthuses quickly. “Whatever you want! I’ll go dig up some bait Friday morning.”

FP swallows, a momentary uncertainty dwarfing his happiness. “Promise you won’t forget?”

“I really, sincerely won’t.” FP had expected a pinky swear or something equally flippant, but Fred only holds his gaze, as serious and as unambivalent as an adult. “I’ll write it down when I get home. Saturday at seven.”

“Freddie,” interrupts Pop Tate, holding a phone at arm’s length from his face. “Your mom’s on the line.”

“Great,” moans Fred, pulling a face as he tugs at his chocolate-stained shirt. “She’s gonna kill me for this. Be right back.”

FP walks back to Mary’s booth as if in a dream as Fred heads toward the payphone. She turns her face up to him when he gets there.

“Well?”

“Good call,” FP admits grudgingly, lowering himself into the booth and snagging another onion ring from her basket. Mary smiles.

“There you go. And I promise not to wear him out too much for you.”

“Thanks, Mary.”

“Anytime, FP.”

And for the first time, FP thinks, the thing that passes between them is something a little deeper than understanding. As if they’d just signed off on some kind of unspoken contract, a shared promise that’s too deep to articulate.

Then Mary glances down at her plate.

“Holy crap, F, did you seriously eat all my onion rings?” She throws her napkin at him. “You’re the worst!”

FP circles Saturday on his agenda when he gets home that night. Pencils in 7AM.

The day comes and he waits for the phone call saying Fred’s forgotten. That something else has taken his place.

But Fred shows up at seven AM with a truck full of gear and a picnic lunch, and FP forgets for the briefest moment what it’s like to be second place.


End file.
